


Questionable Life Choices

by boopboop



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1st person pov, Bea & Arthur, Cardigans, Euphemisms, M/M, Violence, Wade's sick sense of humor, so many dick jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-20 06:18:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5994568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boopboop/pseuds/boopboop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two guys walk into a bar. Wade's bar. One of them has tried to kill him before. The other is wearing a cardigan. He's jerked off to fantasies about both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Questionable Life Choices

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sortofapenny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sortofapenny/gifts).



> I have never written anything like this before, and certainly not from this kind of POV, so please be gentle with me! That said, I do love the idea of Wade and Bucky being bros who sometimes hang out and occasionally try kill each other. 
> 
> I've done my best to nail Wade's pov and voice (pun intended) with questionable success, but please keep in mind that the humor is crude and tasteless, and the whole story is just a bit of random silliness that is very much not to be taken seriously.

Now everyone is understandably hyped for Batman Vs Superman and what’s not to get excited about? Two dudes in capes smacking the shit out of each other in the name heteronormativity and box office takings. Personally, my money’s on the Bats. Not because I don’t think he’s not going to get his ass handed to him on a fucking platter, but because us masked vigilante types have to stick together.

That said. I am more interested in a different kind of showdown, and to that end I ask you this: who would win in a fight? The greatest and most feared assassin to ever live, or the guy with the tragic 90s haircut? I ask this because that is where we find ourselves. Myself. Personally. Impaled to a fucking table with my own precious Arthur – that’s the katana on the right, for your visual reference.

I realize I’ve answered my own question. Victory goes to tall, dark and monochromatic, and to be fair, the guy has me on the ropes when it comes to the tragic backstory so…

And I did kinda shoot him in the face the one time, so I guess I kinda owe him one.

Picture this: two guys walk into a bar. My bar. And no, this isn’t the start of some tasteless joke about penises. The bar is not a euphemism for anything other than a place where you can get a really shitty blowjob. And most things in this bar are exactly that: shitty, which is why these two guys walking in is kinda a big fucking deal.

Let me just say here that, like anyone born after the 40s, I grew jerking off to pictures of Captain America. I mean who wouldn’t? Guy’s just got a face you want to jizz all over, that’s just the way it is. My sudden and unexpected hardon therefore tells me that no, my eyes do not deceive me. This fine specimen of cardigan wearing beefcake is in fact Captain Fucking America Himself. Live, defrosted, and in the flesh. In my bar. Naturally, I am not the only one who notices something like that and for the next sixty seconds things get really fucking awkward as all the lowlifes, cockroaches and repeat offenders in the room shit their pants. Then Cap shuffles to the bar like a fucking boy scout, smiles all bashful like, and orders a drink. I helpfully suggest a blowjob, and he turns those big baby blues on me and says,

“That’s gonna be a bit tricky with that mask on, don’t you think?”

Let it thus forth be known that I, Wade Wilson a.k.a Deadpool will _happily_ bend over and grab my ankles for Captain America. I may be Canadian but there are some things you just have to do. Or have do you. Either way.

Now remember when I said that two guys walked into the bar? Yes. Good. Because guy number two I recognize, and not in the latent sexual fantasy kind of way. That’s not to say I never did the five knuckle shuffle with him in mind; more that when I did I kinda imagined Cap balls deep in his ass and it’s always seemed kinda rude to put your sauce on someone else’s sandwich before they’ve finished eating.

But yes. This guy I recognize not because I’ve thought about him with a dick in his ass but because he’s practically put his in mine. Not in the literal sense of course - although I’m not going to argue if the subject comes up – just in the sense that he has, in the past, absolutely _fucked_ me. Okay so now I know about the whole brainwashing thing, bad guys evil, the guy got royally hatefucked by luck and it seems, I don’t know, petty…to be holding grudges but. You’ve seen my movie. It’s what I do best. So here’s the chance, my devious little mind says, to a, get a little payback, b, blow off a little steam and c, get myself some HD memories to badger the witness to later on tonight. It’s a solid plan.

 _But_ Mr _Pool_ , you must be thinking, _aren’t you currently impaled on a table with your own treacherous sword? That doesn’t sound like a solid plan at all._ Well, I am, and it wasn’t, but hindsight is a beautiful, fickle thing. Let’s go back to Cap.

After ordering himself and his less conspicuous companion a couple of drinks, Cap and his boyfriend take a seat at the far side of the room. They look like they’re about to indulge in a romantic meal for two so it’s roughly fifty-nine seconds before two of our more closeted douchebags embrace their internal homophobia and decide that they want to be the guys to murder Captain America with broken bottles. I could intervene, yes, win myself the undying gratitude of America’s greatest hero but we both know I’m not that kind of guy. Besides, if Nazi Germany can’t kill Cap, I don’t think Bert and fucking Ernie stand much of a chance.

So the room goes all quiet like. Anticipation. Scented blood. A couple of the guys might even be knocking one out under the table they get so excited. And Cap? Does he pound them into whimpering piles of limp and pathetic flesh? No. The guy buys the whole fucking bar a drink. That upsets me. Not the free booze. But the knowledge that now whenever I fantasize about sucking that patriotic dick of his I now have the added bonus of knowing that he’s _nice._ Probably gentle and considerate while he's ramming you full of Prime American dick.Which is rude as fuck if you ask me. So that rules out plan A.

Plan B it is. Now remember that I’m in my full glorious outfit here and my secret identity maybe isn’t _absolutely_ fucking secret but it’s not like I’m taking out press conferences alongside Tony Stark. So when Bucky Barnes a.k.a The Winter Soldier a.k.a the guy who fucking decapitated me in a warehouse in Mogadishu, doesn’t even turn that emo-haired head of his before he says, “Wade,” I think I’m justified in being a little…irate.

Still. I have a plan. “Bucky!” I say, dropping down into the seat next to him, “old buddy, old pal! How’s life treating you?”

“Can’t complain,” he says, drinking slowly. “What do you want?” He's direct and to the point and he has a mouth that has _absolutely_ been wrapped around Cap's dick some point tonight. It's all red and pretty and what was I saying? Oh yes.

“Can’t a guy say hi to another guy without there being ulterior motives? I don’t know how you did things back in the 40s but folks now have these things called ‘manners’.” That makes Cap snort. I’d say insert a five-second pause for some fanboying here but let’s be more generous and call it ten. _I made Captain America laugh!_ “Deadpool,” I say, holding out a hand. Cap shakes it and I get extra points for not swooning. “I am never washing this hand again. Can I just say I am a massive fan? Love the way you decapitate people with your Frisbee; very classy.”

“You know each other?” Cap asks, his eyebrow rising. His hair is all neat and tidy and I very much want to run my fingers through it and then maybe ask him to sit on my face.

“I killed him,” Barnes says flatly.

“Just a little,” I agree. “It was very cool. Have you ever been choked unconscious by this man’s thighs because I gotta say, _A plus_ recommend.”

Cap goes pink. Well that's a yes then. “What do you want, Wade?” Barnes repeats.

I hold my hand to my heart. Barnes is one paranoid motherfucker. “Okay fine, I’ll cut to the money shot. How about you and I try kill each other again?”

“No thanks," Barnes says.

“Come on,” I might be whining a bit here but who’s gonna judge? “You look like you need some stress relief –“ and he does look like he’s been regularly fighting with both eyeliner and a lawn mower. All dark shadows under those brooding leading man eyes of his. “I’d offer a good fuck but I think Cap might Frisbee me to death, so how about the next best thing? Come on, you know you wanna cut my head off again.”

“Again?”

“Steve?” Barnes asks, completely reinforcing my headcanon of him being a major power bottom in this relationship.

Cap doesn’t look convinced. “You said you wanted to blow off some steam,” the way he looks around the bar tells me that it’s because of Barnes that they are here right now. “Will this help?” 

“Oh yes,” Barnes drains the last of his drink. “Absofuckinglutely.”

I get two, maybe three seconds to bounce up and down in excitement and the next thing I know my ass is in the bar still and my head is through the wall and about five inches from the john. “You should get that looked at,” I tell the scaly lizard man who has his scabby cock in his hand, ready to take a piss in the place my head currently rests. “It looks infected.”

Thankfully Barnes pulls me out before he aims it at my face. Old man piss is a dry cleaning thing and that is not in the budget this month.

A second later and I’m back in the bar, held around the throat by the sexiest metal arm I’ve ever been choked by.

“I’ll pay for any damages,” Cap says as I go sailing across the room. Nice guy, that Cap.

Unlike Barnes.

 _But_ Mr _Pool! Didn’t you fight back? Didn’t you give as good as you got? Did you just hand your ass over for a metal fisted pounding?_ Yes. Yes. And also probably yes. The point being, I started a fight for the fun of it. Because I get bored easily and have a short attention span, and because Barnes cut my fucking head off. And also because he really does have fucking glorious thighs. At no point, however, did I stop to consider that maybe, just maybe, Barnes wanted to fuck me up almost as much as I wanted him to do it. That’s where I put my hand on my heart and say ‘my bad’. I misjudged my opponent.

“You,” I say, between being straddled on the pool table by those beautiful, beautiful thighs, “have some major anger issues my friend.”

“No fucking shit,” Barnes says, and breaks my nose with his sad boyband face.

This is the point when I think ‘ _Wade, you’re in over your head here, maybe you should surrender and salvage some of your dignity_ ’. Never let it be said that I listen to my own good advice. Instead, I bring out the big guns.

Not actual guns. Although I do have two, and there’s about a hundred more stashed on various patrons who are all sitting around on their asses watching me get handed mine. I’m talking about my babies. My Bea and my Arthur.

I swing Bea around. “See who likes getting their head cut off now dickwad.”

And this is where it all goes wrong.

Barnes cheats, which is no way for a National Hero to behave themselves and very unbecoming for an assassin. But he does it anyway, and ducks under Bea like a motherfucking ballerina. Then he takes Arthur. My own beloved Arthur. Kidnapped. Abducted by this fiend in black leather and fashionable clingy denim.

I go sailing through the air, crashing into the middle of a poker game. “How can you have five aces?” I ask, catching a glimpse at one of the hands, and then Barnes stabs me in the chest with my own baby.

“Bucky!” Cap shouts, horrified.

“He’s fine,” Barnes huffs, scrapping his stupid hair back out of his face.

“I am indeed fine,” I agree, trying to sit up and un-impale myself. Somewhat difficult when Barnes has gone nine inches deep. “Good fight! Just like old times! Wanna help a guy out?”

“Nope,” Barnes says, ordering himself and Cap another drink while everyone in the bar carries on like I don’t have a fucking sword in my chest. “That’s for shooting me in the face.”

“You’re mad about that?” To be fair, I did do that. Right before he cut off my head. Maybe we’re even already. Or we were. I kinda owe him for stabbing me now. “That was just a little graze! A bullet hickey! Come on!”

But no. Bucky-I-have-an-ironic-aversion-to-the-cold-Barnes just leaves me there like a turtle that’s just been repeatedly run over with a Segway.

Again, you must be thinking, why tell this story? I got my ass beaten by 1940s Backstreet Boy. Where’s the bragging rights there?

Well. Not only can I now say that I have fought – and survived – the Winter Soldier twice, like all good Marvel episodes, there is a post credit scene that makes you question if the last twenty minutes of your life have been wasted or not. Unlike Guardians of the Galaxy, I can promise you more than a fucking duck.

So there is me, impaled, bleeding all over the most ill-fated game of cards since Leo won his ticket for the Titanic, questioning some if not all of my life choices, and suddenly, looming over me, is Captain Fucking America Himself.

He’s beautiful. Like an angel sent down from the heavens to beat the ever loving fuck out of Nazis. And he leans over me, wraps his hand around the shaft protruding from me like a proud American flag, and jerks it out of my body with one powerful tug.

“It was good to meet you, Deadpool,” he says, nice as fucking apple pie.

He drops Arthur at my side. We’re going to have to have a chat about impaling me.

And then, like a scene right out of one of his more violent movies from the 1980s, he draws back his big, glorious fist, and punches me in the fucking face. “That’s for shooting my boyfriend.”

And that, dear friend, is why I made you sit through all this. Not so you can pay your respects to the thousands of hardworking men and women who bring you such violent, family friendly fun, but so you could see this. The highlight of my entire fucking life.

 The moment when I, Wade Wilson, a.k.a Deadpool, got punched in the face by Captain Fucking America Himself.

Worth it, don’t you think?

(Incidentally, it’s also how you know this isn't endorsed by Disney. The mouse will tell you that Captain America doesn’t even touch his own dick, let alone another dude’s. But that right there? That firey hot protective yumminess? Barnes is saluting that fine patriotic flag once a night and twice on Sundays, no fucking lie. And on that mental imagine, I’m gonna say goodbye, farewell, and don’t forget the lube when you masturbate – it makes all the difference.)


End file.
